’ While he trod a deliberate path through the pink saloon towards the door, Gerald encouraged a flow of harmless chatter about the people Madame had met and the parties she had attended. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. He allowed his irons and clothes to be taken off without resistance. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. He was a man tout à fait capable, this Gerald. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. ’ ‘And you will not,’ came triumphantly from the cherry lips. “Soon she will return. ‘Ha! Just the person I want. No matter. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said.
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